by Alan Hruska
“With Sarah?”
“No.”
“You just took her out of school.”
“A bit early, yes.”
Alec feels a bit dizzy.
Carrie says, “Let’s go, Alec. Even my clothes hurt.”
In the back of the cab, she hands Sarah to Alec and sits on the edge of the seat.
“Where we going, Mommy?” asks Sarah, not at all comfortable with this situation.
“To Alec’s house, darling. Alec’s a friend of mine.”
“He was in the park.”
“That’s right, sweetheart.”
Alec leans forward to face the child. “Should we get some ice cream, Sarah? What do you say?”
She gives this serious consideration. “What flavor?”
“Any you like.”
“Pistachio,” Sarah concludes.
“Excellent choice.”
“Buy a gallon,” says Carrie. And in a sardonic whisper in Alec’s ear, “We can feed it to Phil when he comes.”
SIXTY-TWO
At five-forty in the afternoon, Sam is asleep on the La-Z-Boy in his front room. Two things happen almost at once. An ambulance siren startles him awake. Then on the recording that put him to sleep in the first place, a voice recognizable as Vito’s starts mentioning Alec’s name.
To Sam, it’s more likely than not he was dreaming. Groggily, he rewinds the tape. No mistake. Vito is talking to a man named Dominick. He’s chortling about a lawyer named Alec and the things Phil will do to him. How he will mutilate and dismember him and revel in every scream. Sam, momentarily transfixed, doubles over and heaves his lunch at the floor.
Sam and Abigail have serious conversations, typically, in her kitchen or her bed. That afternoon, Sam arrives, hustles her out to his car, turns the heater on and relates what he’s just heard.
She says, “How on earth does Phil Anwar know your son?”
“I think,” Sam says, trying to get a grip, “as far as I could piece this together—and as crazy as it sounds—Alec is somehow mixed up with Phil’s wife.”
She stares at him for a moment with incomprehension. “Is that even possible?”
“It’s that case Alec’s working on. They seem to have gotten involved, somehow. The problem with these goddamn tapes is that they give you incomplete information.”
“I can’t believe this,” she says. “It’s fucking surreal.”
“I have to tell Alec what I have—about the recordings. I have to warn him.”
“If he’s sleeping with Phil’s wife, I think he knows he’s in trouble.”
“So whatta you saying? I shouldn’t talk to him?”
“Dammit, Sam. I don’t know what you should do. You just hit me with this. What I do know is that somebody’s gonna get hurt, and I don’t want it to be you.”
SIXTY-THREE
Phil’s downtown office is on the twenty-seventh floor of 40 Wall Street. His several rooms there are furnished in light woods and heavy draperies. On the walls hang paintings by very good American Impressionists: a street scene with flags by Childe Hassam, a beach scene by Edward Potthast, and a sunset by William Merritt Chase. Phil brings the bankers and lawyers in for his legitimate deals. It’s the one-upmanship that amuses him. His paintings are better than theirs.
He keeps no permanent staff there, though, and answers his own phone.
At least one of them. The one whose number only several people in the world have. So he’s surprised when it rings.
“Phil?”
“Yeah, John?
“We need a meet. Tonight at the latest.”
“I’m having dinner in town.”
“I’ll join you.”
“Look forward.”
There was no need to say when or where.
Alec’s new apartment, rented while Carrie was in rehab, is on the sixth floor of a doorman building on 87th between Madison and 5th. Its living room has a dining alcove from which, through a small side window, one can glimpse Central Park. There’s also a good-sized bedroom with a view of the street and a kitchen just large enough to turn around in. Alec hoped to stop by the apartment for about five minutes, throw some of his own clothes into a suitcase, grab a car at a rental agency, and get them all out of town. Carrie insists, however, that she’s in no condition to travel.
Instead, she spoons Sarah ice cream at a leisurely pace, tucks her in for a late nap on Alec’s sofa, and then sprawls face down, under the covers, in Alec’s bed, all her clothes piled on a chair. Throughout these movements, he’s allowed a brief glimpse of the crosshatched pattern Phil made of her back, and it sickens him.
It’s also frightening as hell. The fact is they’re defenseless in this apartment. Phil could arrive at any time, with henchmen, guns—strap them down; tape their mouths; torture them as long as he wanted. Maybe he won’t with his daughter in the next room, Alec thinks, but that idea seems more wishful than real.
Alec sits on the edge of the bed, not letting Carrie sleep. He needs to know what’s happened, he says, so that he can even begin to consider what they should do. In a strained voice, Carrie recounts Phil’s visit to the rehab facility in New Jersey and how he got her to leave immediately by threatening Alec and promising vehemently to stop beating her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alec says.
She turns her head away on the pillow.
“Phil never gave you the chance. And never kept his promise,” Alec concludes.
“Seems I’m not the kind of person to whom keeping one’s word matters.”
“But he let you go.”
“After he killed my father.”
“He did what?”
“I saw it happen.”
“He murdered your father right in front of you?”
“Scared him to death. Literally. Threatened to put out his eyes with knitting needles.”
“Good God, the man’s totally demented.”
“He would have done it,” Carrie says. “Da knew that. It’s what killed him.”
“I’m so sorry. About your father, and that you had to see it.”
“I don’t know how I feel. Shock. Still in shock. And hate. I hate that man as sick as he is.”
Alec is trying to think through some kind of plan. “Phil has this address?”
“Not from me.”
“He’ll want his daughter back.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And now you’re a witness to a murder.”
“Except Phil never touched him. And Da was dead drunk. I’m no lawyer, but I can hear Phil saying, ‘Isn’t it probable the man was too drunk even to hear the threat, and simply died of natural causes?’”
“He beat you up again. What was that for?”
“You think he needs a reason? He likes to do it, and he does what he likes.”
Alec gets up, goes to the window facing the street. “It’s not smart being here, Carrie. I could be out now getting a car. Or even a van. You and Sarah could sleep in the back while I drive us to Ohio or Colorado or wherever.” He turns, and she’s fast asleep. He shakes her harder than he intended.
“Alec, stop! I can’t move. Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow.”
Swearing silently, he watches her pass out.
Then goes into the kitchen, dials Harvey Grand.
“Yes?”
“I have them here, my apartment. Carrie and her daughter.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Can you get me a car?” Alec asks.
“For tonight?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Why not tonight?”
“She can’t move.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Harvey, no. Just the car, please. We’re okay for now. In a new apartment—as you advised. Phil has no idea where we are.”
Alec hangs up and regrets it. Why didn’t I accept his offer of protection? Stupid pride? His brain isn’t working well, but he thinks, If we don’t leave here, it wouldn’t have helped, bringing in Harvey. Either we all die or n
o one does.
Sarah’s wide eyes are watching him. “How come you got a sword?” she says, pointing to Jocko Rush’s gift hanging above her on the sofa wall. “Do you fight bad guys?”
“Something like that.” He flops down next to her. “How ’bout some apple juice?”
“Can I see it, the sword?”
“Sure,” he says, bringing it down from the wall.
She carefully touches the sword handle, attracted by its spiral striations of turquoise and amber mesh. “Is it very sharp?”
“Probably the sharpest sword ever made.”
“Could you take it out of that thing?”
“Out of the scabbard, no. Way too dangerous.”
“Where’s my mommy?”
“Sleeping in the bedroom. Want to go see?”
“Will I wake her up?”
“You might.”
Sarah presses her lips together and then shakes her head.
“What about that apple juice?” Alec asks.
“Yes, please.”
He brings it to her in a glass. She drinks slowly, measuring him with each sip.
“Hey,” says Alec. “Want me to read you a story?”
“Curious George,” she says without hesitation.
“Don’t have that one, I’m afraid, but I do have one I saved from when I was your age. Peter Rabbit. Should we try that?”
“Okay.”
Alec, finding the book on the shelves, sits next to her and starts reading. The story holds her in thrall. She especially likes the part where the rabbit is threatened by Mr. McGregor. “Stop thief!” Alec reads with a flourish.
“Again!” says Sarah, her squeal pure delight.
“Stop thief!” Alec reads even more dramatically.
“Again!”
Alec grills a hot dog for Sarah and puts two TV dinners in the oven for Carrie and himself. He ends up eating both dinners alone. Carrie is not to be awakened.
He and Sarah watch television for a while. Alec’s bought a new DuMont set, and it’s wired to an antenna on the roof that gives pretty good reception. After an episode of Mister Ed, Sarah falls asleep again on the sofa. Alec rechecks the door chain, wedges a chair under the handle, and moves a bookcase against the chair. He has little faith in any of these precautions. Even less in the night doorman, whom Alec once caught sleeping, or in the lock on the back door to the building, which can be opened, Alec has discovered, with a penknife. He thinks again about calling Harvey. Then about waking Carrie, and no matter what her protests, dragging her and her daughter off to a car rental office, and speeding out of New York. Then, with anger at his own fear, his thoughts rebound. Why is it a given Phil knows where we are? And even if he does, it’s a crowded Manhattan building. He’s not going to commit violence here. Surely not with his kid in the next room.
Alec stands with his back against the bookcase. He hates being this frightened. He goes into the bedroom, watches Carrie breathing evenly in a deep sleep. What the hell are we doing here?
Downtown, Phil dines either at Ponte’s in the printing district or Sloppy Louie’s in the Fulton Fish Market. Both places have corner booths plated with his name, released to other parties only after eight thirty. Phil shows up by then or not at all, and on Friday, which this is, only at Louie’s.
Normally, Phil invites Vito plus two or three others to sit at his table. Tonight, he’s alone but not for long. Little John enters, dispatches his own men, and takes the seat opposite Phil.
The head waiter immediately displays for their admiration a bottle of the house’s best pinot grigio. The waiter pours, the men taste and approve. When the waiter leaves, Little John says, “I’ve been offered a deal. On the diesel matter. U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
“To give them who, John? Me?”
“Of course.”
“This is Sid Kline?”
“That’s right.”
“And?”
“And! Whatta you mean and?”
Phil laughs. “You gave them nothing. But this thing worries you?”
“It’s not so simple,” Little John says. “They have other witnesses. Most times, they say that, it’s bullshit, but here they know too many details. Someone’s talking.”
“Then why do they need you?”
“They’re not offering me much. They don’t expect me to take the deal.”
“So whatta we talking about, John?”
“We’re talking about somebody talking.”
“I doubt that,” says Phil.
The large man stares glumly at his wine.
Phil says, “This is Sancerre. It’s what he does. He pokes you, gets you to poke me, sits back, sees what happens. If he had something, he wouldn’t be playing.”
“What about Poole?”
“What about him?”
“He’s a direct link.”
“And?” Phil says. “That warrants a bullet in the head?”
Little John shrugs.
“Okay,” Phil says. “Let’s take the case of this guy, Poole. Perfect example. They have absolutely nothing on him or any of the men working for him. We made sure. And we were careful. And while no one other than Poole knows much that Sancerre doesn’t already know, no one in the group has any incentive to tell him fuck-all. You start killing people—especially Poole—and suddenly what? You change everything. You double the government resources and scare everybody shitless. I mean everybody. Martini, Raffon, spreads like leprosy.”
“They’re already scared.”
“Right. Scared enough to keep their mouths shut. You let them know we might take them out anyway, we’ll scare ’em right into witness protection. You know why?”
Little John frowns.
“You know why?” Phil repeats.
“Don’t fuck with me, Phil.”
“Because they’ll have no place else to go.”
“I get the fucking point. What about your wife?”
Phil regards Little John with a cold stillness.
“I hear she’s not with you again. Not living in your house.”
“She’s controlled, John.”
“She took your daughter, I hear. You allow that?”
“For a time.”
Little John drinks, considers the bouquet, and takes another sip. “Do you know where she is? This very moment?”
“I know exactly where she is.”
“Then—”
“My dear friend. Do you think for one minute I’d allow this situation to go uncontrolled?”
“Look,” Little John says. “A man and wife, that’s personal. I know that.”
“I’m glad you do, John.”
“But I’m your friend, Phil. I think about your best interests. You could have any woman you want.”
Phil waits, says nothing.
“This one—and I say this as your friend, thinking only of your interests—she may be bad for you. The worst kind of woman for someone… such as yourself.”
Little John smiles, which creases the fat in his face into rolls. “I have a cat I’m fond of. Not an affectionate animal, but great manners. Very proud, very clean. However, every now and then, he catches another little animal outside and drags it into the house. A mouse, a chipmunk, a bird. He doesn’t kill it. Keeps it alive for as long as he can to torture it. Loves to toy with it, cause it pain. It’s not an attractive trait. It decreases my love for him.”
“I’d get another cat, if I were you,” Phil says, while signaling the waiter to come over for their orders.
Little John sits stoically until the waiter leaves. Then he says, “I may do that.”
“All right.”
“Now we’ve talked it through.”
“And I’ve heard you,”
Phil says. “I’m not sure you’ve caught my meaning, however.”
“Oh, I got it, Johnny. I got it, believe me.”
“Don Giovanni agrees with me.”
Phil raises an eyebrow. “You and my uncle?” he says.
“We’r
e also related. He and my mother were cousins.”
“Second cousins.”
“Still blood.”
Phil forces a laugh. “I know the man a lot better than you do. I’m fine, he’s fine. I talked to him in London.”
“Well, he’s here now,” says Little John.
It was, as intended, a slap in Phil’s face.
Phil says coldly, “Here? Where?”
“New Jersey. I set up a house for him.”
“You set up a house? He asked you to do this?”
“He did.”
“What are you telling me, John?”
“I’m telling you, none of us have any patience left with this situation, Phil. Y’know what that means, no patience?” He gets to his feet, knocking over his chair. “We’re not gonna let it keep happening.”
Having turned off all the lights, Alec lies down fully clothed on top of the covers, next to the still-slumbering battered beauty in his bed. He listens intently to every creak in the building, every moan of the wind, every twang and strain of the elevator cables, every rattle of the doors. He analyzes each sound for inflections of danger. This night, he thinks, will turn into a nightmare. The point then dawns on him: It already has.
Three hours of listening. The other sixth-floor dwellers have returned home. The elevator stops moving, and the street sounds prevail. From sheer exhaustion, Alec falls into an agitated sleep, despite the near certainty it’s not going to be restful.
SIXTY-FOUR
Roughly shaken awake, Alec sees colors. Red for terror. Bright blue in flashes for the screams in his throat. The black feels like drowning, of which Alec was dreaming. Drowning in gasoline, because that’s the smell of Vito’s meat hook of a hand mashed over Alec’s face.
Then flipped, one arm locked behind him, face mashed in the mattress, Alec cannot see the goon holding grips on his wrist and neck. Phil, he can see. Phil turns the light on with one hand, rams Carrie down with the other. Phil with his scalpeled features, workout body, and black silk turtleneck. Phil says very softly, “Either of you wakes the child, you will not walk unassisted from this room.” Releasing Carrie, he directs her. “Get your ass outta bed! Now! Do it!”
“Phil, Jesus! I’m not wearing anything!”